


Snoopadoodles

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arthur is only allowed to help on special occasions, Baking, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur helps Carolyn bake his favorite cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snoopadoodles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Something Sweet](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6034.html?thread=9619858#cmt9619858) prompt on the meme.

Arthur stood on the other side of the kitchen island wearing his ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron and a bright, beautiful smile. It warmed Carolyn’s heart to see him happy for what felt like the first time in weeks. Arthur’s constant cheeriness could be grating at times but its absence struck Carolyn with a worry that hit her very core. She walked around to his side of the island, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and did the very thing his apron suggested: she kissed the cook on his temple.

“Do we have everything?” she asked, looking over the island.

Arthur nodded enthusiastically, eager to get started. “I think so, Mum.”

“Read over the recipe again,” she suggested. “To make sure.”

Arthur reached for the bench in front of him, his smile wavering when he didn’t find the recipe card. He moved ingredients around, picking up bags of flour and sugar, checking inside the nested bowls and the egg carton for the missing card. Carolyn was about to suggest that she might know the recipe well enough for them to go on without it when Arthur pat down his pockets, eyes widening as he thrust his hand into the small square on the apron embroidered with his name. He triumphantly produced the card and proceeded to read from it while Carolyn withdrew measuring cups and spoons from a drawer.

“Snoopadoodles,” Arthur read, holding the card in both hands. “Makes four dozen. That’s...” Arthur counted four fingers on his hand, “forty-eight cookies.”

“Very good, dear,” Carolyn smiled.

Arthur grinned back at her. “Ingredients,” he went on. “One and one half cups sugar. One cup butter, softened. Two eggs. Two and three-quarter cups all-purpose flour. Two teaspoons cream of tartar.” He paused before asking, “Mum, is that like-”

“No, Arthur,” she interrupted. “It’s not like tartar sauce.”

“Oh, okay.” He turned back to the card. “One teaspoon baking soda.” Arthur paused again but seemed to decide not to ask his question. “One-quarter teaspoon salt. One-quarter cup sugar and two teaspoons ground cinnamon for coating.”

Carolyn had measured and portioned each of the ingredients as Arthur read them aloud. A row of bowls, divided into wet and dry ingredients, stretched neatly across the bench. A matching row of bowls sat next to them; it was often handy to have extra ingredients available whenever Arthur was cooking.

“That’s everything,” Carolyn nodded. “What’s next, Arthur?”

“Preheat oven,” he read from the card.

Arthur turned around and squatted in front of the oven. He flipped the light on and off a few times to make sure it worked; checking on the cookies while they baked was Arthur’s third favorite part of the process, after eating the cookies and rolling the cookies in cinnamon sugar. He set the temperature to the appropriate degree and popped back up to the island where Carolyn had set up the electric mixer.

“Mix wet ingredients in a large bowl.”

Carolyn poured the sugar and butter into the mixer while Arthur tried to crack the two eggs. He did it over a separate bowl, an intermediate step they’d included after the last batch of cookies had been crunchy for the wrong reasons. Runny raw egg oozed out of Arthur’s hand and onto the bench as the first egg split in half when he struck it against the bowl.

“You’re not trying to shatter them like a piñata,” Carolyn criticized when the second egg also didn’t make it into the bowl. “Gentler,” she instructed. “Light taps.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes when Arthur delicately tapped the third egg on the lip of the bowl. A crack eventually formed and Arthur turned the egg as he went, encouraging the hairline fracture to make its way around the egg. Once he’d spread the crack around the circumference of the egg, Arthur snapped it in half with both hands, dropping the raw egg into the bowl. He repeated the five minute procedure on the fourth egg. Arthur added the eggs to the mixing bowl and Carolyn turned the beaters on low.

“Wash your hands, Arthur, and then come and scrape down the bowl.”

“What about the bench?” he asked from the sink.

Carolyn tossed a tea towel over the pool of egg, some of which had started to drip down onto the floor. “That’ll do for now.” She handed Arthur a spatula. “See how it’s climbing up the sides? Push it back down,” she said, guiding Arthur’s hand with her own, “to ensure that everything mixes well.”

Arthur stood watch beside the mixer, diligently pushing the butter mixture down the sides of the bowl. He didn’t look up when Carolyn ruffled his hair affectionately, too focused on the task at hand. After a few minutes, Carolyn peered over his shoulder, into the bowl.

“You can add the dry ingredients now.”

Arthur checked the recipe card. He dropped in the salt, baking soda, and cream of tartar. He reached across the island to grab the bowl of flour and added it in slowly, in batches as Carolyn had shown him, constantly pushing the batter to the center of the bowl as he did. When all the flour was in, Carolyn took the bowl from him and Arthur resumed his post beside the mixer.

Dough was building up on the side of the bowl closest to the neck of the mixer. Arthur found it difficult to reach that side of the bowl without getting his spatula snagged on the beaters. He twisted his arm at odd angles but still found himself unable to reach the build up. His brow wrinkled in thought and he turned the corner of the island to get a better look. Arthur held the spatula by its very end, tongue curling over his lip as he tried to slip it into the bowl behind the beaters. He was able to push at the dough but the bowl shifted due to the angle of the spatula. Arthur grabbed the mixer in an attempt to steady it, accidently turning up the speed with his thumb.

Flour, which hadn’t fully integrated into the batter yet, flew into the air. The mixer whirred and shook at the high speed, beaters spinning fast enough to fling blobs of dough out of the bowl. 

“Arthur, turn it off!” Carolyn shouted.

Arthur fumbled for the switch with the hand holding the spatula. Carolyn rushed back to the island, reaching around him to turn the mixer off. The beaters slowed and the high pitched whir came to a stop. Carolyn looked around the kitchen, surveying the aftermath: flour spread across the bench and the floor; little bits of dough stuck to the cupboards, the windows, and even the ceiling; her son, pale with both fear and flour, nervously clutching a spatula to his chest.

“I’m sorry, Mum, it was an accident! My thumb hit the knob and the beaters went faster than I’ve ever seen them go! I didn’t mean for it to get everywhere. I’ll do it, I’ll clean it up, you won’t have to do anything.”

Carolyn quieted Arthur with a hand to his flour-covered cheek. She used a towel to wipe the flour from his face, being careful to keep it from falling in his eyes. He looked surprised when she smiled at him.

“A little mess isn’t the end of the world.” She took the spatula from Arthur and dislodged the bowl from the mixer. Carolyn scraped what was left of the dough into the bin before securing the bowl back on its stand. “That’s why we have extra ingredients,” she assured him, returning the spatula. “We’ll just start again. What’s first, Arthur?”

Still looking a little stunned, Arthur searched for the recipe card. “Snoopadoodles,” he mumbled, reading over the card. “Ingredients. Preheat oven.” Arthur glanced over his shoulder at the oven that had reached its desired temperature long ago. “Mix wet ingredients in a large bowl.”

Carolyn helped him reassemble the batter, taking over spatula duty while Arthur cracked two more eggs. With Carolyn standing watch over the mixer controls, they completed the dough the second time around. They worked as a team to pan the cookies, Carolyn, scooping balls of dough out of the bowl and Arthur, rolling the balls in cinnamon sugar and arranging them in rows on the cookie sheets. Carolyn held the oven door open while Arthur slid the cookies in, his hands protected from the heat by large, green alligator oven mitts.

She sent him to gather his things while the cookies baked but Arthur returned in minutes, clothes changed and apron gone, to sit in front of the oven. After the timer went off, Arthur watched over Carolyn’s shoulder as she tested to ensure the cookies had set.

“These are very, very hot,” she cautioned as she pulled the cookie sheets from the oven. She swat Arthur with an oven mitt when he leaned over the cookies. “Don’t even think about touching them until they’re cool.”

She banished Arthur to a stool on the far side of the island to keep him from accidentally burning himself. Arthur leaned forward, bracing himself on the seat of the stool.

“They smell brilliant!” he proclaimed.

“Yes, yes they do,” she agreed as she tucked the silly, green oven mitts into her handbag.

When the cookies were cool, Arthur helped Carolyn scrap them off the cookie sheets. They packed the cookies into three bags, two containing a dozen each and the third containing the rest. They left the cookie sheets on the island, sitting on flour, raw egg, and little bits of dough. The mixing bowl, the beaters, and the spoons, cups, and bowls from their prep sat in a pile in the sink. They left footprints in the flour on the floor as they made their way out of the kitchen.

The front door was wide open and cold air filled the entryway. Carolyn put on her coat, making sure she had her handbag and the cookies with her. Arthur hastily wrapped a scarf around his neck. He took the large bag of cookies from her and bounded out the door.

Carolyn started to smile as she watched Arthur gift the movers with freshly baked cookies. Her smile immediately fell away at the sound of the impatient huff beside her.

“Your keys, Mrs. Shappey.”

“That’s _Ms._ Knapp-Shappey,” Carolyn corrected.

The minute movement of the lawyer’s brow told Carolyn that she didn’t care to remember the distinction. She held out her hand and Carolyn unceremoniously dropped a set of house keys onto her upturned palm.

“I believe this is an exchange,” said Carolyn, unfurling her own hand.

The lawyer dropped a set of keys into Carolyn’s hand and turned down the walk without another word. Carolyn’s grin returned as she closed her hands around the keys to Gordon’s precious aeroplane. He’d been furious when the assets were divided and it was awarded to her. He’d demanded the house in retaliation and found himself still light one aeroplane when she gave it up without a fight; Carolyn had no desire to live in a place where she could hear his horrible voice echoing in every room. She also had no use for an aeroplane, she couldn’t fly and she didn’t intend to learn, but she was more than happy to take it away from Gordon. It was the only thing he did want; he didn’t want the house, he didn’t want Arthur, and he didn’t want her.

Not that Carolyn wanted him either. She was glad to be rid of him and overjoyed to be taking their son and Gordon’s favorite toy with her.

“Arthur!” she called. Her son skipped over to her with cookie crumbs on his lips. Carolyn handed him the alligator oven mitts, “Hold these silly things.” Arthur slipped the oven mitts on while Carolyn put the keys into an inner pocket in her handbag and retrieved her car keys. “Did the movers like the cookies?”

“They thought they were brilliant!” Arthur answered, skipping alongside her. “And they are, Mum! Soft and chewy and cinnamon-y.”

“Well, that’s good. Are you ready to go?”

“Where are we going?”

Carolyn stopped for a moment to consider their new life, a life without Gordon, without anger and belittlement; a life with freedom, with happiness for both her and Arthur... and an aeroplane.

“Anywhere we want to,” she smiled.

“Brilliant!” Arthur hopped into the car and buckled himself in. He turned to Carolyn as she sat in the driver’s seat. “But we’ll pick up Snoopadoop first, right? She loves Snoopadoodles almost as much as I do.”

Carolyn looked to Arthur; her son beamed at her, wearing green alligator oven mitts, asking about their ridiculously named dog, as the buttery, cinnamon-y smell of equally ridiculously named cookies filled the car. She couldn’t help but laugh as she started the engine.

“Of course, dear heart. Who are Snoopadoodles for if not for Snoopadoop?”


End file.
